


Reclamation

by Rainsaber



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Character resurrections, Dead Aunt Polly, Dorian Gray is Dead, Edward's bored AF, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Henry Jekyll and John Watson are doctor power duo, I gave Tom a new coat and shorter hairstyle, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Kind of Undead Quatermain, M/M, Mina's in charge, Moriarty is Dead, Nemo's just along for the ride, New Nautilus Equipment, Nightmares, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Mycroft, Rape Recovery, Sebastian Moran's out for blood, Sexual Assault, Sherlock's not right all the time, Skinner gets a new look literally, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainsaber/pseuds/Rainsaber
Summary: A year has passed, and the League receives a request from Mycroft Holmes for aid in apprehending a criminal in London. Said criminal, quietly known as the Child Ripper, turns out to be a man from Tom Sawyer’s childhood nightmares. Rewrite of The Devil’s Obsession.
Relationships: Huckleberry Finn/Tom Sawyer, Mina Harker/Edward Hyde, Mina Harker/Henry Jekyll, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Tom Sawyer & Allan Quatermain
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Grief that does not speak

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in the synopsis, this is a rewrite. There’s not a TON that I’ve actually saved from the old story aside from some major plot points. And if you’re a numbers person the old story was approximately 265 pages and I’ve cut about 200 of them. So, we are in LOTS of new territory on top of what I had planned for the sequel, so it made much more sense to combine the two and I’m actually pretty happy with the structure this time around. I’ve grown and matured a lot over the past ten years so it’s my sincerest hope this version does much better than its predecessor. 
> 
> On the rating: My plans aren’t for this to be super graphic, but given the subject matter I decided to err on the higher end of caution in any case. 
> 
> On a personal note: I myself am a survivor of sexual assault, and some things over the years have been triggering for me, so I will do my utmost to be as transparent as possible with the tags and pre-chapter notes where warnings are appropriate. While this story is much different than what I personally experienced, the recovery journey is what’s most important to me. To my old readers and reviewers, if there are any, thank you for your kind words and support all those years ago.
> 
> “There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.” -Henry Wordsworth.

He adjusted his grip on the pencil and finally signed at the bottom of the letter, _-Tom_.

Afterwards, he sat back in his chair, taking a long slow breath.

The envelope with Sid’s name on it was waiting at the top corner of the desk.

When he’d put it together and folded the envelope into itself, he looked around the house one final time. He’d cleaned it himself after he’d gotten over his initial grief. Dusted all the little trinkets and packed them safely away in boxes. Covered the furniture with fresh sheets. Made sure all the china and dishware was clean and ready for use. Hell, he even painted the damned mailbox.

It was the right thing to do.

Aunt Polly’s house was the perfect wedding present for Sid and Becky.

Shit, he’d almost forgot the deed.

After he stuffed that in Sid’s letter too, he left the envelope on the bottom step of the staircase. Like they planned. He briefly rested a hand against the well-worn banister. The late morning sun spilled down from the window on the second landing. The grandfather clock in the sitting room chimed the eleven o’clock hour. Tom would miss the sound of that damned clock. He glanced behind him toward the front door where his bags were packed and waiting. He’d need to get moving if he wanted to give himself enough time.

But he wasn’t going to chicken out on doing the very last thing he’d been avoiding since he came here. So, he started to climb the staircase. He could have closed his eyes and his feet would still take him the familiar route to what had been his own room. There’d been too many memories to deal with, so he’d largely ignored everything he could up here, even when he had to clean the house top to bottom.

The doorknob was cool to the touch. And just as easy as ever to turn.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Aunt Polly didn’t touch the room the day Tom moved out. She had a tendency to hold grudges like that. Maybe he hoped she would have moved on with her life and cleaned the room out so she could have had another guest room. She was always complaining she only had one guest room aside from her own bedroom, whenever she talked about having family over for holidays.

Out of habit, he crossed over to the mirror and ran his hands through his hair to tame the short mess. He’d had it relatively long for most of his boyhood. Until Aunt Polly made him cut it before his first day with the Sheriff. He’d had a similar haircut like this in his training days for the Secret Service, but as soon as he’d had the chance, he just ‘forgot’ to get it cut. Then field work. Then the League. Then Mina’s teasing. Then the letter from Aunt Polly’s neighbor, Miss Ida. The hair wasn’t terribly short. There was still some length along the top, but he had to admit it looked much cleaner than it had been after all that time running around the globe.

She would have liked it, he thought to himself. But she woulda hated the beard, no matter how well trimmed he kept it.

_“What, you’re gonna go all that way on an empty stomach?” his aunt asked, disappointment apparent._

_Tom threw a pair of socks into his bag and stopped in the middle of packing. Huck was waiting outside and he couldn’t put it off any longer, no matter how much his aunt wanted to prolong his departure. “We’ve been through this Aunt Polly.”_

_“Just don’t see why they need you two boys in Washington DC. They got people workin’ for the government here. Robbie does work for them here—”_

_Tom turned hard eyes to his aunt as he deposited one bag on the floor near the door. “Don’t start this again. You know I have to go and I’m goin’.”_

_“But when you plannin’ on comin’ back? I got holiday plans to make and I can’t get this whole house ready without some help!”_

_“I can’t come back here if I’m workin’ can I?”_

_“Well they can’t make ya work Christmas! That’s a downright sin!”_

_“I ain’t workin’ for a goddamn priest,” Tom yelled. He was fed up with his aunt guilting him into staying. She’d given him countless lectures about making something of himself and here he was doing just that and here she was going back on everything she tongue-lashed him about. Huck was about to save him from this town and she couldn’t understand that a change of scenery was the answer that Tom didn’t know he needed._

_“Don’t you raise your voice at me Thomas,” his aunt yelled back at him, tears nearly falling from her glossy eyes. “And don’t you dare blaspheme in this house neither!”_

_Tom took a second to breathe. His aunt was shaking his resolve, and he didn’t like it because if he stayed any longer, he knew that he’d never leave. And he needed to, for his own sanity. Tom took a deep breath, words already in his head, as he shouldered his second bag and turned to face his aunt one last time._

_“Thank ya kindly for everythin’ you done by me, Aunt Polly. I’m a better man cause of it, cause of you. Maybe one day you’ll know why I can’t stay here anymore.”_

_He picked up the bag that he placed by the door and made to brush past her, but she sidestepped in front of his path. Tom was certain he’d never forget the sight of her in that moment, hands clasped in front with worry, eyes pleading for words she wanted so badly to hear. He very nearly gave up and dropped his bags then, letting loose the real reason why he couldn’t stay. Yes, it was because of the nightmares he refused to speak about for eight years. Yes, he saw no future with his school sweetheart Becky Thatcher because of what happened. And yes, he blamed his Aunt. But he could never say those things out loud, never admit the truth, because it would hurt her and it would ruin what was left of the love she might’ve had for him as a… mother. He wanted someone to know, someone to care…but she just wanted him to stay for her sake. Because she didn’t know. And as heart-breaking as it was, Tom knew in his gut that she wouldn’t understand._

_“Thomas,” she pleaded. “Please don’t leave.”_

_Tom took in a shuddering breath, blinking back the water that started to form in his eyes, and brushed past her as gently as he could on his way down the stairs. Behind him he could hear her calling his name. Though the tears now freely fell from his eyes he didn’t dare look back as he exited the house. Her footfalls ceased on the porch and Huck called his name, trying to catch up to him as he firmly planted one foot in front of the other. They didn’t stop, even when they reached town._

The view from his bedroom window wasn’t as cloudy as he expected.

Someone had come in here regularly to clean and dust. He didn’t imagine it would’ve been her, and if it had been her it would’ve made him feel all the worse. Four years and there should have been layers of dust… a heavy weight settled in his gut.

_He’d never get to ask her…_

_He’d never get to hold her…_

_He’d never get to apologize for what he said, how he left, tell her that he loved her…_

Tom sighed, sat down on the creaky bed, and put his face in his hands. If he cried, if he gave in, he’d never stop, and then he’d have to explain the red eyes to people and then they’d talk behind his back… it wasn’t as if he was planning on coming back here. He’d loved being the talk of the town when he was a kid, but as he got older it was just more and more of a hassle. A royal pain in the ass, if he was being blunt about it. And after what happened… he lost count the number of times he wished he could have been like Skinner, just turned invisible so nobody could ever find him.

He’d never get anywhere if he sat here much longer and wallowed.

He’d miss the damned boat and the next one wasn’t scheduled for another week and a half.

So, Tom got on his own two feet and took a few breaths, looking around the room one final time.

His eyes landed on the loose floorboard next to the bedside table. Pulling it up was as easy as he remembered it being. And its contents had remained unchanged since boyhood. Dirty and dusty from being left there for so long. Rather than sift through the contents of the tin box now, knowing he was running short on time, he took the whole thing and replaced the floorboard.

At the bottom of the stairs he stopped to prop the envelope up before going over to put on his new coat. It was one of the few expenses he’d allowed himself to spend some money on. The old coat had gotten tattered and ripped over the course of the last year. So much so that Mina had threatened on multiple occasions to steal and burn it. It was folded and rolled up in one of his bags for nostalgia only. Too bad he couldn’t fit the damned thing into the tin with everything else. So instead he took out the old coat and carefully wrapped the tin box in it and replaced it in his bag. 

The new coat was more Huck’s style if Tom was being completely honest…

Huck always had a better sense of style than Tom anyway.

It was simple enough. Black. Length ending at his knees. And it had been tailored free of charge too. Tom had tried to pay the man for his troubles, but the tailor was well acquainted with his Aunt Polly, and for a long time had fancied her but never had the guts to say anything. It didn’t make Tom angry or defensive for his Aunt, surprisingly, but it did make him feel pity. Because Tom himself wasn’t exactly a stranger to unrequited love, if he even dared call it that.

He placed his hat on his head, shouldered one bag and grabbed the other on his way out the front door. He paused to lock it and left the key in the flower box Aunt Polly had kept at the corner of the front porch. The dead flowers had been cleaned out of it last week. Yesterday Tom planted some marigolds in it. They were Becky’s favorite. If Tom ever came back to St. Petersburg Sid would owe him a drink.

He could have stayed for the wedding, probably should have, but it was all too much going on at the same time.

And the League was calling.

The ride was quick enough into the heart of town. People were milling about taking care of their daily business, and thankfully ignoring him for once. Maybe with the hat and the new haircut he’d make it out of this town without someone else stopping him to tell him how sorry they were. The wagon finally slowed to a stop about a block away from the docks, jolting Tom out of his head.

“Thanks for the ride, Jim,” Tom said, climbing down from the wagon and grabbing his bags.

“You’re welcome, Tom,” Jim said before taking off. “Take care!”

Tom took a moment more to watch and make sure Jim didn’t get any trouble on his way home. When the man had turned a corner and Tom could no longer see him, he finally headed down to the docks and climbed aboard the steamboat that was to take him down river. After another hour, the steamboat was well on its way down the Mississippi. Tom holed up in his room until most of the deck had turned in for the night. Maybe it was an unnecessary expense, paying for a room to himself, but he needed the privacy. Having to deal with the lawyers and mourners and nosy neighbors over the past couple of months had steadily worn down his patience. After a while he’d grown to envy Henry’s recluse tendencies, something he thought he’d never sympathize with and always pity in others.

He didn’t unpack anything except for a letter that was addressed to himself. The paper hadn’t yellowed yet, despite the fact that it was a year old. It was still sealed, and the corners bent from travel. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon he’d had the hindsight to purchase and headed for the deck. By Tom’s reckoning it was close to one o’clock in the morning, and as he suspected he was the only passenger around. That suited him just fine. He grabbed a chair and propped it next to the railing, to at least have the light of the full moon to read by. He settled himself down, carefully placed the bourbon by his foot and reached into his pocket for his last roll of tobacco.

He didn’t smoke often. Only on special occasions, and especially bad ones. He’d tried it in other places when he and Huck had first joined the Secret Service but nowhere was the same as it was at home in the heartland of the states. He’d savor this last one, because God knew when he’d be back. Maybe he wouldn’t for a while. Maybe not ever. No real reason to now that he’d taken care of all his affairs. Such a strange thing, him having affairs to tend to…

He lit up, sat back, and enjoyed it, counting the clouds and the stars as time passed.

Only when it was done did he touch the bourbon, and the letter. It wasn’t like he was putting off reading the damned thing this long, but he just hadn’t been ready. He didn’t even feel ready now, but when would he be? After about a quarter of the bottle was gone, he took a deep breath and carefully worked the letter open.

A sob lodged itself in his throat as soon as he saw his name.

_Sawyer,_

_I owe you an apology. One that I know I won’t have time to properly deliver to you in person. You asked about Harry and I shut you out. Understand that this old man has grown used to being alone. Burying loved ones seemed to have been a hobby of mine, so I decided to shut everyone out, for their own safety. I have come to terms with the fact that I am a selfish person, that I don’t have the courage to tear this letter in two, go knock on your door, and have a proper conversation. Man to man._

_The truth is that you do not deserve someone like me, because I do not deserve someone like yourself. You have so much to offer, son. Don’t let someone like Moriarty destroy everything we have pledged to defend. And don’t let the League keep you from doing what you know to be right. Learn to listen to that heart of yours. Don’t shut that nagging voice out like I have, or you’ll end up bitter and alone like me._

_Whatever the turn of this business in Mongolia, know that the time I’ve been fortunate to have spent with you has been more rewarding than all the past twenty years that I’ve spent wallowing in my own guilt. This new century is yours. Carry on what we have fought for. And find happiness. It is a treasure worth more than all the treasures of the world. You reminded me of that. And for it I am eternally grateful._

_—Allan_

Tom read it three times, and even stared at the handwriting some more, before finally folding it carefully and putting it away in his inner breast pocket.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, wiping at his eyes and face. 

He missed that man.

What would he have given to have him back? Him, or Aunt Polly, or even Huck? Just about any God damned thing in the world that was in his power to give. It had been a hell of a year. Since Huck’s death. Since saving the world. Since Allan’s death… and burial. And now his Aunt Polly.

If it wasn’t for the League, Tom would truly be alone and adrift in the world. God as his witness, he’d lay down his own life to ensure he didn’t have to bury anyone else. With a smile on his face too.

Three days later, Tom was itching to get back aboard a vessel that actually didn’t crawl like a Goddamn snail. If the Mississippi weren’t so shallow Tom had no doubt he wouldn’t have had to suffer three wasted days in the stagnant heat that promised one hot summer ahead. Hell, with the time it took the League to get from London to Venice they could have been off the shore of New Jersey by now.

When they finally docked in New Orleans Tom was almost the first person off the steamboat. It was late, and most rooms were surely booked up for the night, but he was saved from the trouble by a woman who called out to him from an open-air wagon. 

“Are you Tom Sawyer,” she asked him.

“I am,” he answered.

“You look different than how the Captain described. You can put your bags in the back and sit up front with me.”

Tom did as she said and climbed up afterwards. “You know Nemo?”

“Old friend,” was all she said as she checked the lamp before replacing it and setting off.

On closer inspection Tom noted that she was older than she initially appeared. She didn’t look as old as Nemo, maybe ten years off or so. But he didn’t press her for information since she seemed comfortable enough with the silence. Didn’t stop him wondering though. Dressed in well worn men’s clothes and a hat with a large brim to pull down, it was no wonder she didn’t—or may not have—received any second glances. Her hands were delicate enough to suggest a life of some comfort, but her eyes were hard, calculating, and her mouth set a firm line of determination. The only thing warm about her was her voice. If Tom were a couple of years younger, he wouldn’t have been able to keep his mouth shut.

Though the roads were dark, they certainly weren’t quiet. Wildlife could be heard everywhere. Tom worried they might come across a gator, but by the grace of God they never did.

About two hours outside of town, the woman finally pulled the wagon to a stop and pointed to the side of the road. “Down that path there. Follow it right to the water. He’ll be waiting.”

“Much appreciated, ma’am,” he said in thanks, climbing down and grabbing his bags.

“You can tell him he can keep his payment so long as he accepts my invitation for a proper visit.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Take care, Agent Sawyer.”

“Just Tom is fine,” he corrected. He didn’t really want to get into the whole mess with the Service at the moment, and she seemed to take him at his word without further explanation since she drove off without another word.

True to what she said, Nemo was indeed waiting at the end of the path in typical blue clothes, boots, and turban, looking the exact same as the day Tom left. “You’re late, my young friend,” Nemo greeted.

“If I ever see another God damned slow-as-molasses steamboat it’ll be too soon,” Tom groused.

Nemo smiled and grabbed Tom’s hand with both of his own in a firm grip. “You have been much missed as well.”

Tom moved past him to toss his bags in the newest version of the Nautilus’ exploration pod. Sawyer had heard about it from the letter Nemo had been able to get to him, and to see it in person was even better than how he imagined it. The idea has been born after they’d been able to drop Tom off in New York, and after Tom had been able to get them a letter recounting how much trouble it had been to get out to Missouri over land. Instead of being daunted by the challenging topography of America’s rivers and bayous, Nemo decided to get his men working on a new project.

The new pod was of a similar shape to the exploration pod, but turned on its side and elongated. It was more of an oval than a circle, but with plenty of room for two people to sit side to side. It had self-sealing storage compartments for portable equipment, or in this case Tom’s bags, and a half dome in front, a similar function to the windshield of the car Tom had ruined in Venice. This new invention was still in its prototype phase, which meant Nemo was only comfortable testing it in short distances. Otherwise Tom could have been picked up from St. Petersburg and would’ve been far less ill-tempered than he currently felt.

“Does it have a name yet,” Tom called over his shoulder.

“Not as of yet,” Nemo admitted, climbing over the miniature gang plank. “The others agreed that a water carriage was too obvious a moniker, but neither did they supply another proposal.”

Tom shrugged. “Well, it is _your_ invention.”

Nemo smiled. “And I remain open to suggestions.”

“I can think of somethin’…”

“Not unless you become properly acquainted,” the captain said, gesturing to the operating seat.

Tom smiled. “Now I know y’all missed me.”

“Try not to capsize us,” Nemo said while strapping himself in the passenger seat.

The sheer excitement of getting to test the new pod had him feeling better than he’d felt in months. But Tom wasn’t stupid. The first thing he did was strap himself in before he touched anything. He still felt bad about what happened with the car, and he knew he’d been damned lucky to live through that mess without a seat strap. Allan had made sure to give him an earful about it later.

Nemo switched the controls to manual after pointing out an automatic button that once pressed self-powered the engine to return to the Nautilus on its own.

For the record, Tom did go slow at first, just to see what she was capable of… before increasing the speed in healthy increments. It was lucky for them that the seas were calm. That was probably the ONLY reason Nemo let him drive the new pod, but it was still a welcome rush that chased all the worldly woes away for a while. Occasionally Nemo would point out functions and ideas for future modifications, but she had the bare necessities.

When they could no longer see land Nemo tapped him on the shoulder and told him to slow to a stop. Then he pressed another button which sealed them inside, the pod started to dive on its own. Tom felt his heart skip a beat when they got swallowed up by the darkness, but once completely under the surface of the water, the interior lights came up, soft and with a greenish hue.

“Thought the ship would be up,” Tom commented.

“The solar panels have already restored what was lost,” Nemo said, keeping an eye on the control panel, and making occasional adjustments. “And once we dock with the Nautilus we will be free to make our way to London.”

“Saves time, then?”

“A quarter days’ time to be precise. And we are already behind schedule.”

Tom frowned. “I thought they said Friday?”

“They did. And just today they amended the meeting time to Thursday evening.”

“Well, that’s a great first impression.”

“Indeed. Mrs. Harker is not pleased by the developments. Nor I, but we shall make up what we can.”

“Did we get any other information out of ‘em?”

“We did not.”

Tom sighed. “We got a contingency plan for something like this, right?”

Nemo turned to look at Tom and slowly smiled.

Tom rolled his eyes and decided to play ball. “ _What?_ ”

“Foresight suits you, is all.”

“Don’t tell Mina,” Tom warned. “Next thing any of us knows she’ll put me in charge of somethin’ and then we’ll really be in the weeds.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Nemo said, looking over Tom’s left shoulder.

Tom followed his gaze and the sight stole the breath from his lungs. There in all her glory was the Nautilus, lit up and practically shimmering like the massive pearl sword she was. It made all the lost time he’d had with her and the League ache in his chest. Allan probably would have called him sentimental—which was saying something—but Tom would just blame his thirst for adventure on the old hunter. He’d listened to old stories when he was a boy and craved them so much that he had to start inventing his own. Living this one, continuing with this one, was a true privilege.

Even Huck woulda been jealous.

“Welcome home, Agent Sawyer,” Nemo said.

“Goddamn, I missed that,” he breathed, taking it all in.

The pod kept diving until it was directly underneath the rear of the hull. It propelled itself to an oval shaped hole, then stopped. The pod shuddered and any hope for conversation was drowned out by loud clanking machinery. Sawyer thought they’d be going straight up, but the pull felt more diagonal, which he supposed made some sense since they wanted to steer clear of most of the rear engines and machinery. Finally, they surfaced inside the Nautilus, the top walls of the pod stopping level with the interior deck of the room they were in. The back dome of the pod opened up again and some of the crewmen came to applaud them. Nemo climbed up and out, saying some things in his native language before they dispersed to analyze their new data.

Tom retrieved his bags and climbed out to some familiar faces.

“There he is,” Henry greeted with a smile on his face before taking one of Tom’s bags. “Wonderful to see you, Tom!”

“You’ve cut your hair,” Mina near-exclaimed.

“It ain’t that dramatic,” Tom waved off. “Trust me.”

“Well, le’s see the damage then,” Skinner complained while snagging Tom’s hat in the blink of an eye. “That don’t look that bad! Look like a man instead of a boy now.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Tom replied, letting his annoyance bleed through.

Skinner tossed the hat back at Tom with a chuckle, and patted him on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, sport!”

“Supper will be in the main salon in half an hour,” Nemo promptly announced. “I shall rejoin you then.”

“And I shall see him to his room,” Mina said to Henry, holding a hand out for Tom’s bag.

Henry wasn’t happy to be handing Mina a bag to carry, but did so regardless. Months ago, things had come to a head about Mina’s responsibility and place with the League as its only woman. What it boiled down to was being considered an equal, and while Nemo and Tom had been the first to side with her, it did take Henry an embarrassing amount of time to come around to it. Tom had never really thought to describe himself as chivalric, but he wasn’t about to make a woman feel any less capable either. Because truth be told he’d seen some women to twice the work of a man in his early days with the Secret Service. 

“You’re wearing black again,” Tom commented, when they were making their way to Tom’s room, sans the others.

“Perhaps I prefer it,” Mina retorted with a cool look.

“You know you don’t have to.”

“I may not have known your Aunt, but when one of us mourns we all do. In our fashion.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but…” Tom came to a stop when he felt something hot in him flare up. What should he have said? She wasn’t your family to lose? You didn’t know her? Do you know what it’s like to lose everyone you love? The cold truth of the matter was he knew she did. And that was unfair. Shit, he hadn’t been on board more than ten minutes and he’d almost snapped at one of the people whose company he’d desperately craved over the past few months. He’d have to watch himself for a while. Make sure he didn’t fuck this up too. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

Mina narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not what you intended to say…”

“No,” Tom admitted. “But thank you all the same. I’m just grateful I still got all this, and you to come back to.”

“I do not believe I am speaking out of turn, but I hope you know that you will always have the League.”

“Thanks,” he got out before he got too choked up.

If Mina noticed how tenuous his hold over his emotions was, she was too kind to call him out on it. She simply guided him down the familiar halls to a familiar room with a cool hand on the middle of his back. There wasn’t much time to unpack so they dropped the bags and headed for the main salon. Maybe the fact that Mina chose not to note Tom’s new coat was a dead give away that she was worried about him, but Tom didn’t mind. He minded if it was a stranger he didn’t know, he minded when it was familiar faces from his childhood he didn’t care much for, but he didn’t mind when it came to his friends, the people _he_ cared about.

Perhaps too much.


	2. Deductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ for Chapter Warning: There’s no specific memories involved in this chapter, but it does deal with the shock of seeing a rapist’s face, hearing his name, and the consequences of retraumatization on the body.

_ Thursday… _

Tom Sawyer did not have a hangover.

Tom Sawyer _never_ got hangovers.

Tom Sawyer… had a hangover.

And he wasn’t happy about it, not when Skinner startled him awake, not when Nemo was staring at him for barely eating any breakfast, not when Henry made multiple attempts to try and offer him something for the splitting headache, and definitely not when Mina returned from her brief trip to the surface of the London docks.

“I’ve secured us a carriage,” Mina announced. “For those of us who wish to stay out of the rain.”

Tom loved summer storms, but in London the rain was colder, damper, and just downright unpleasant.

“Looks like a damn hurricane,” Tom groused, pulling up the collar of his jacket and tucking a borrowed scarf from Nemo into his vest.

It seemed such a fine scarf that Tom tried to beg the captain off, but when Nemo’s mind was made up there wasn’t much anybody could do to change his mind. Tom wasn’t stupid either. After Quatermain died, Nemo had made it a point to spend more time with Tom instead of ignoring him as the additional self-inviting guest. Back then it was Allan’s word that mattered. Truth be told, the morning of the burial he’d had his bags packed and ready to…well, go somewhere. And it was just expected that he’d stay, see the world with them all, like he was one of them, part of them, a friend? It threw him for a loop at the time. It had helped in the months after, until news of his Aunt finally reached him. And even after that, when he had literally nothing left in terms of family, he still had the League. Nemo hadn’t been the only one to extend kindness to Tom, but the Captain’s kindness opened his eyes to the possibility that the League had turned into more than just the League.

Carriage rides in general weren’t particularly pleasant, especially when traversing down roads that had long histories of wear and repair. And it wasn’t helping with the hangover either, but Tom knew he’d be making his bed the moment he agreed to drinks in the parlor after dinner the night before. It was hard on all of them to return to London. In fact, London had been the one place they’d been avoiding in their travels after Quatermain’s burial in Africa. London was where The League began. London was where Moriarty had spun them into his web. London was where each of them had their own painful ties. Tom was just annoyed he was the only one feeling the ill effects of the night before, when Mina had imbibed nearly twice what Tom had. Somewhat childishly, he blamed it on her vampirism and she laughed at him. Cackled, really. 

“So, we got a plan here,” Tom asked, pressing fingertips into his forehead above his right eye.

“Walk in, determine friend or foe, receive the necessary information, and walk out,” Mina summarized. “Does that seem sufficient?”

“Simple,” Tom mused. “I like it.”

“They check out,” Skinner added, adjusting the black glasses on his invisible face. “Least these three do.”

“Is there a larger organization behind Mycroft Holmes,” Nemo asked.

Skinner shrugged. “Probably. Keeps his secrets close to the chest. Hard to tell. But since his brother’s some renowned detective and all—”

The Captain frowned. “An affiliation with law enforcement does not constitute purity of character.”

“Actually, them coppers don’t take too well to him. Meddling they call it.”

Tom frowned. “It’s not meddling when you’re doing someone else’s job for them.”

“Oh really,” Skinner replied, leaning forward to turn and look at the American. “What would you call it then?”

Tom shrugged and asked the carriage, “Strategic advising?”

Skinner chuckled.

“You’re quiet, Henry,” Mina prodded.

“Just thinking,” he answered, winding his crossed arms tighter around himself. “And hoping this isn’t a mistake.”

“We can turn back,” Nemo suggested. “Decline and move on. We answer to no one but ourselves.”

“Which from a national security standpoint,” Tom added. “Tends to be a problem these days.”

Nemo arched an eyebrow. “For whom besides the United States of America, I wonder?”

“You think the Queen didn’t hear about Venice?”

“It would perhaps,” Henry interjected. “Be better to ask which country did _not_ hear about our involvement with Venice.”

“We do not act unless we are all in agreement,” Mina reiterated. “Wholeheartedly and with all facts considered. Do you feel differently, Henry?”

A moment passed. “It’s fine. I… we should at least hear what they have to say. And reassess, if necessary.”

“Then we shall reevaluate when we conclude our business with them. Is that satisfactory, gentlemen?”

Mina got no argument from any of them, so she sat back while they all fell into an uneasy silence.

Eventually, the carriage pulled through a set of gates that opened after Mina spoke to the groundskeeper. The rain hadn’t let up, which made none of them particularly willing to linger on the doorstep, even under the spacious overhang. The front door was unlocked and the League stepped into a large foyer. Tiled marble flooring covered a square portion of what they were later to learn was a huge complex of personal rooms, laboratories, offices, and a few libraries. Up another short level was the rest of the front hall, carpeted floors and steps, furnished hallways with small wall lamps and the occasional chair, wood paneled walls with recesses for portraits and paintings, but few windows on this side of the complex. To most, it would have seemed the idealized epitome of a college or school. To them, it brought back memories of the last time they’d been paraded through winding hallways to a spectacle of a library rather than an actual functional one.

The atmosphere was thick with a deathly quiet until a set of interior double doors opened, spilling brighter light into the dark foyer. The figure of a man stood in the opening with calculating eyes that gleamed as he turned back to the other occupants of the room. “Ah, I thought as much,” the man said. “Mycroft! Your League has arrived.”

Tom shared a look with Mina before they entered what appeared to be a double storied library. It didn’t have anywhere near the grandeur of the library that had been described to Tom when the League had been called to meet for the first time, or Dorian’s that he’d only been able to appreciate briefly _after_ it was destroyed. It was surely the reason for the initial tensing and relaxing of most of the other members of the League. Because it was more than fair to say this group had a poor history with libraries.

A fire blazed bright in the fireplace despite the gloom outside the tall windows. In front of the fireplace was set a large table set for eight (Three to each side and chairs at either end). And at each seat a portfolio and a glass of water was set.

The two other men that had been conversing at one of the windows, ended their conversation and approached the newly arrived group. The man at the door who had announced their entrance was no taller than Nemo. His wavy hair toed the line between wild and well kept, while his personal attire spoke more to the latter. Tom had a suspicion this might have been Sherlock Holmes, for how intently he was studying them all.

Mina turned to address this man, looked him up and down, and extended her hand, decidedly not in the feminine fashion. “Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

The man narrowed his eyes, but took her hand and shook it with caution. “May I ask how you arrived at that assumption, madame?”

Mina smiled patiently as she gave his hand one final squeeze before releasing it. “A lucky guess,” she demurred.

He made a calculating noise at the back of his throat. “Then you must be Mina Murray Harker?”

“An unfair guess, if I may say so.”

“An obvious one.”

Tom had been right. And it was simultaneously odd and bittersweet. He could still remember Huck raving about the stories and shoving them under Tom’s nose whenever he had the chance. He had relented on a few of them, mainly to satisfy Huck’s badgering. The methodology of the detective work had been the most interesting part. If Tom had been asked directly, he’d’ve been called a liar if he said it hadn’t influenced him during his early days in the Secret Service. For a while he had someone to look up to, someone to model himself after and use as a personal goal. It was hard to believe that this man was that same cold and calculating character from the stories.

The famous detective looked a little older than Tom would have expected, warmer despite the sharpness of his eyes. It instinctively put Tom at ease, made him want to lower his guard, which of course was the danger with this particular man. That, seemingly, was the ingenuity of Sherlock Holmes and it was breathtaking.

Sherlock inclined his head toward the thinner of the two men who had come to greet them. “Watson: The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.”

“Just The League,” Mina corrected.

“Joint decision,” Sawyer supplied.

“For the obvious reason,” Jekyll added.

“Obviously,” Sherlock accepted.

Mina narrowed her eyes at the detective. 

“A—pleasure,” Dr. Watson replied with a tight smile that held little happiness. “Despite the circumstances. _Doctor John_ Watson.”

“And I am Mycroft Holmes,” the remaining and slightly larger man declared. “I could guess as to your identities, but I would rather be more generous than my brother, Sherlock.”

The sibling rivalry was so quietly obvious that it brought back memories of Huck. Tom felt his eyes start to water and the corner of his mouth spasm under the strain of trying to push it all back down. But push it back down he did, because he and Huck deserved their privacy. “Special Agent, Tom Sawyer,” he introduced himself, taking the bull by the horns in the short silence. “American Secret Service.”

“Ain’t got meself such a long title,” Skinner said, leaving the group and claiming a seat for his own, going as far as to prop his feet up on the table and smear just a handful of white face paint across his mouth. “Gen’leman thief, Rodney Skinner.” He even had the gall to grin.

Tom rolled his eyes and shook his head as Dr. Watson visibly tried to gather his wits.

“Please pardon Mr. Skinner’s manners,” Mina said, with a glare. “It seems that they have become as transparent as he has.” She crossed the room and…whether it was purposeful or not, she flung her jacket open and knocked his hat clean off his head with her hand. Skinner ducked his head and managed, at least, to save his hat from smearing onto his face paint. To make matters worse she sat down right next to him at the head of the table, well within warning range.

As the rest of the group wandered over to the table, Nemo and Jekyll quietly introduced themselves. Dr. Watson seemed most interested to meet another one of his profession. Somewhat selfishly, Tom hoped they might broker a friendship so he might have the opportunity to commend the man on his books. But he had a gut feeling that wouldn’t be happening in any convivial manner until they closed whatever case they were about to crack open. Eventually, when everyone sat down, Tom took a sip of his water and tried to shake a feeling of foreboding that settled itself between his shoulder blades.

There were no good feelings to be had when a child murderer was involved, but how exactly the League was a perfect fit for what Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes needed had yet to be made clear to Tom.

“Thank you for coming,” Mycroft said. “And for your flexibility. I’m sure you can understand how quickly situations may change upon the discovery of new information.”

“It would certainly not be the first time we have had to adapt to necessary conditions,” Mina replied easily.

Mycroft nodded with a considering upturn of his lips. “That is comforting to hear Mrs. Harker. Now, what you have in front of you are the combined efforts of my brother, his colleague, and I concerning our primary target—”

“There are a few pieces of information,” Sherlock interrupted. “That I must confirm with Agent Sawyer before we continue any further. In private. ”

“Me,” Tom asked, surprised.

“What kind of information,” Mina asked, instantly defensive.

“The sensitive kind,” Sherlock dismissed, standing from his seat.

“This couldn’t have been dealt with before we sat down,” Mycroft asked, clearly unhappy at the interruption, but seemingly used to such behavior.

“We won’t be more than a few moments.”

Mycroft leaned over to whisper an argument to the younger Holmes, but Sherlock didn’t seem put off in any respect, only annoyingly calm and stubborn. Tom could practically feel Mina’s boiling anger at the end of the table, but the instant Tom stood and crossed to lay on her shoulder could he feel some of the tension ease.

“It’s fine,” Sawyer whispered.

“This is highly irregular,” she hissed at him.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes. And besides…” Tom laid a hand on one of his holstered pistols.

Mina didn’t seem reassured, or even amused.

When Tom broke eye contact with her, he noticed Sherlock, Mycroft, and Dr. Watson were watching their exchange.

“If he has cause,” Mina threatened, baring her teeth. “I will not be the only occupant of this table that will be most _displeased._ ”

“You have my word,” Mycroft promised, with a warning glare thrown at Sherlock. “That I will be as well.”

“Such a fascinating gathering,” Sherlock said, nonplussed. “Shall we?”

Rather than use the adjoining room that seemed fine enough, Sherlock Holmes led Tom down a long hallway to a large office on the other side of the building. Once the door was shut, and unnecessarily locked in Sawyer’s opinion, he watched as the detective paused at the door to gather himself. The whole situation just struck Tom as odd, which made him more relieved that he hadn’t had to relinquish either of his colts when they first got here.

“You got something against vampires, Mr. Holmes?”

“Actual vampires, I don’t believe so. Though I don’t recall ever having met one, so it is hard to say.”

A-ha. “You don’t believe her. It’s alright. I didn’t at first either. Hell, first time we met she had a knife to her throat by one of Moriarty’s men and before any of us could talk the bastard down she turned around and ripped _his_ throat open… With her teeth—”

“Yes, that was inferred,” he said, coming further into the room. “Am I to understand correctly that you killed James Moriarty one-year past?”

“I did.”

“How?”

“Bullet to the back of the head at nine hundred yards.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Nine hundred?”

“Hard to tell in the snow. Was probably more, but I don’t like to brag.”

“If that is true, you’d give Moriarty’s best sniper a run for his money. Speaking of which, he is one of our spiders,” he said handing a file with papers and a picture over for Tom to look at.

Tom opened it up and saw a picture of a hard-set man staring back at him. The sight of him brought back the night he met the League with such clarity it felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. “I know that face… Up in the attic of Gray’s house—I knocked him out.” After a moment of pause, Tom admitted, “And then he tried to knock me out. I got a hard head. What does this… Sebastian Moran have to do with this?”

“He was dishonorably discharged from the British military for violence toward higher ranking officers,” Sherlock explained.

“Not surprising.”

“Tight on funds he turned to Professor James Moriarty for a new and hopefully lucrative enterprise, which of course turned out to be your League. Prior to this, Dr. Watson and I had a previous encounter with him and Moriarty which nearly proved fatal. We had reason to believe Moriarty was dead, but not Moran. When we realized both had survived, you were in the midst of destroying Venice, I believe.”

Tom winced. “Best not to talk about that.”

“I deduced as much. One would have thought Moran perished in the explosion in Mongolia, but he was spotted a month ago by a reputable source of mine. He’s formed a small enterprise of his own and he means to fix what you ruined.”

“The samples were destroyed. They fell in the water and Nemo retrieved the box. Or what was left of it.”

“You destroyed the samples, yes, but not the methods.”

“You think he’s gonna try this all over again? With us? …man’s got balls,” he muttered before closing the folder and handing it back to Holmes.

“Make no mistake, a man who learns from his failures is more dangerous a second time around.”

“Well, we appreciate the heads up. But how does this all connect to this child killer you need us to find?”

“The murderer is a recent hire of Moran’s. And I suspect he is someone you know.”

Both of Tom’s eyebrows rose. “You got a name?”

“A name, and a photograph,” he admitted, handing over a second case folder.

Tom took it and opened it up without a second thought.

And dropped it.

The file hit the floor, scattering. It must have been a sound. But Tom hadn’t heard a thing. The picture fell out, face up, and the face of the supposed killer stared back at him with eyes so familiar—so known—it shattered him.

Tom’s knees buckled as he stumbled backward. He made half an attempt to look for a something other than the floor to vomit on, but the churning contents of his stomach stole that chance from him. There wasn’t much to throw up, but the burning mess stripped his throat to pieces. The taste was something he never got used to when he was a kid. And one of the few disturbing revelations was that he hadn’t reacted this badly since his childhood. It was something he got used to, something he had learned to control.

His body was shaking as the urge to retch subsided. Chills made their way up his spine. Then he lost all sensation for a minute. Never had he felt so vulnerable and helpless, not even when Huck died. That case file was a slap in the face after everything that had happened. It made him angry. It made him want to scream, but he just didn’t have the energy. Richard Harding, the sick son of a bitch, had just walked right back into Tom’s life like he’d never left. “Fuck,” he breathed.

He felt the detective kneel down next to him, a comfortable distance away, but it still made his body tense all over like an explosive ready to blow. “I will admit,” Sherlock said softly. “That I had a suspicion, but my aim was not to shock you.”

A bitter and brittle laugh forced itself out of him, dragging along with it a few tears. Before he could angrily try to scrub at his mess of a face, Sherlock wordlessly offered him a handkerchief. Tom stared at it, but eventually took it with a shaking hand and cleaned his face. It was embarrassing enough to make such a mess of himself, but doing so in front of someone he’d looked up to in childhood was just the icing on the cake.

“I wanted to give you a choice. Not all knowledge is necessary in catching a criminal.”

“Appreciate it,” Tom said after swallowing, trying not to clench his fingers too tightly around the handkerchief he just used.

To the detective’s credit, he looked fairly guilty, all things considered, but Tom held no ill will towards him. Even if Sherlock Holmes was a mind reader, Tom wouldn’t have traded that invasion of privacy for any bit of comfort on his part. “I take it you’ve spoken to no one about this?”

Tom shook his head, still unable to make eye contact. He gripped the arm of a nearby armchair to ground himself. Somehow he’d managed not to get any of his sick on it. Small mercies. Though how he was going to get this cleaned up was not immediately clear. Tom gave the room a quick glance but saw nothing he could have used. He tried getting to his feet, and though the detective held a hand out for assistance, Tom ignored it. “I’m sorry about—”

“Do not concern yourself,” Sherlock said. “The house retains a small staff on a regular basis.”

Tom nodded, his mind still reeling and feeling stubbornly detached and foggy. Thankfully, Sherlock Holmes was more like Nemo than Henry. Time to collect himself and patience, instead of hovering and worrying and an endless barrage of questions, was always more helpful and welcomed. After catching his breath, he felt more equipped to confront the blazing ball of fear burning in his chest. Tom set his jaw and turned around to look at the picture on the floor. As soon as his eyes found it, he shut them tightly on instinct.

Exhale. Open again. Still there.

He hated that picture. He hated it for all the hurt and harm it dredged up. And all the hurt and harm it’s caused others. Just like him. Jesus, just like him…

“He’s… done this here?”

“Several times in fact.” Sherlock paused to take a breath and collect the papers on the floor. “I often employ a group of street boys to complete simple tasks for me. Mostly when I am unable to do so myself, but primarily to give them a source of income and support outside of workhouses.” When the detective stood after collecting the last of the papers, he kept his back to Tom. “Robbie was one of the victims. A week after that Charlie was found. And six days past… James escaped.”

Tom held his breath, having to ask, just to be sure. “He got away?”

“Yes.” Sherlock Holmes gathered himself and turned back around to face him, with calm murder in his eyes. “There is something I wish for you to understand, Agent Sawyer. I mean not just to catch this man and prevent him from harming and murdering his next victim. I mean to end him. Permanently and by whatever means necessary.”

There was something strangely comforting in that threat. The League hadn’t exactly signed up for vigilante work, and none of them would likely agree to subverting Scotland Yard when it came to a serial killer. But this was Richard Harding. “Seems like you and I got something in common, then,” Tom replied.

“Do we have an agreement? By whatever means necessary,” he asked, extending his hand.

After a brief moment, Tom took it and shook. “We do.”

“Good. This case will not by any means be easy. Should you ever need a moment away from things, you may call upon Watson and I at 221b Baker Street. Regardless of the hour.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “I uh…” He released a shaky breath. “Let’s keep this between us for now. If you don’t mind?”

“Of course.”

“ _How_ could you have guessed this about me?”

“Watson has a compatriot who works for the Secret Service in America,” Sherlock said. “He was able to track all of Richard Harding’s—” He paused when Tom flinched. “Movements during his tenure in America. Did you grow up in St. Petersburg, Missouri?”

Tom nodded silently.

“That will inevitably come up in our review of the case file. There are few places he’s been tracked to have stayed longer than a couple of weeks. I shall do my best to deflect any probing questions—”

“It’s alright. I’ll think of something,” he waved off. “That boy, James… he’s safe?”

“The safest,” the detective promised. “Along with the rest of his lot.”

Tom nodded. That was good, at least. Also good… though it was hard to view it that way, was that someone knew. Sherlock Holmes didn’t know the details, but he knew enough and that was a small comfort. He didn’t think he was ready for the League to know. And he had no idea when he’d even be ready to tell them, if ever. It was just something he really didn’t want to talk about, or think about… but he didn’t have that luxury anymore and it wasn’t fair and it made him want to punch something, repeatedly. “We should get back to the others, then,” he said.

Sherlock agreed and they said nothing more, quitting the room.

As soon as he got within sight of the meeting room, Mina predictably shot to her feet and was across the room in moments. “What’s happened,” Mina demanded.

“Nothing,” Tom attempted to dissuade.

“You look ill,” Henry argued, standing from his seat. “Are you alright?”

“Price of too much good company last night,” he said, the half-lie rolling right off his tongue like the old days. “I’ll be fine. We got work to do.”

Tom mistakenly laid a hand on Mina’s arm to try and guide her back to the table. Her eyes shot to his and tried to bore deeper for understanding. He was sure she could feel the faint trembling in his hand, and see the cracks in his careful calm face. She ultimately said nothing, but gave him a look that plainly said the matter was most certainly not over. When they all sat back down and began Tom had to ignore the glances from everyone else and focus on the information. It wasn’t easy, but he managed. When they opened the case file on Richard Harding, he was ready this time. He just hoped when he came face to face with the bastard that his courage wouldn’t leave him high and dry as it had with a simple picture.


End file.
